Everything Hurts

June 15, 2018

Everything hurts. My feet, my back, my hip, my shoulder, my left hand. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. When stuff hurts in the morning, it means I’m alive for another day. When it hurts in the evening like it does now, it means I’ve had a productive day. After a morning spent taking a forgotten lunch to a grandson, I had time to read before the day started humming. 

The grape vines got planted, and the bucket mounted on the tractor. The bulk of the day was spent loading the fine gravel the road crew swept from the bridge and piled at the end of our yard. Sunday there will be a baptism in the swimming hole, and I didn’t want people to have to navigate around a pile of gravel. I didn’t count the trips I made to and from the pile, picking it up then dumping and spreading it on the driveway. 

After supper with only three of the grandkids, I got to try out the pole saw I bought last week to take care of some of the dead branches that seem to proliferate on the trees bordering the creek. I was pretty well spent when it was time to build the fire for s’mores. A bit of desk work, and I’m ready to see what the inside of my eyelids look like. But before I do, I give thanks for strength and health enough to tackle jobs that leave me feeling tired and sore. It is a privilege many do not get